


The Webs We Weave

by BlackRosePoet



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bisexuality, Multi, Nick Fury Lies, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:45:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackRosePoet/pseuds/BlackRosePoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Clint Barton faces the aftermath of the Chitauri invasion, the repercussions of which include the death of his handler, Phil Coulson. As he and Natasha struggle to make amends with this, however, Clint discovers not everything he's been told has been the truth. While out on the field, a series of events start to unfold leading him to a startling conclusion.<br/>Coulson isn't as dead as Nick Fury made him out to being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Webs We Weave

_May 5, 2012 – 22 Hours After the Chitauri Invasion..._

“Sit down, Agent Barton. We need to have a chat...”

Clint stood at the doorway, staring down the imposing figure seated behind the desk. Brow furrowed, he evaluated the scene with several things already striking him wrong about this situation, his training kicking into gear despite the lingering effects of mind control.

For one, they were alone. Usually, S.H.I.E.L.D. debriefings featured a host of people and Barton knew his was coming to him in spades. Whether or not his actions were his own, he still led an invasion against a heavily guarded fortress filled with some of the best-trained men the covert organization could boast. It had been the crescendo to a whirlwind, sleepless episode, something coming back to him in shattered pieces barely orienting themselves twenty-four hours later. ‘ _You have a concussion, too, moron. Don’t forget about that_ ,’ he thought.

Only fair, considering he had been trying to kill his partner when she whacked him across the head.

For two, the man behind the desk was none other than Director Nick Fury himself. The large man loomed intimidating enough without the eye patch, but now resembled the sort of force you’d run from rather than facing head on. When he scowled, you felt five feet shorter and wanted to pool onto the floor and slither underneath the door. Clint had been expecting the scowl. A glare. A lecture. Perhaps some mercy for the fact that he’d hardly asked to have his brains scrambled by some Norse god having a temper tantrum. The look Fury greeted him with, however, made his stomach twist into a knot.

There was sympathy – actual, heartfelt sympathy – there. Not that fake shit somebody gave you when they were trying to walk a mile in your shoes while tripping over the laces. Nick Fucking Fury was about to deliver a one-two punch to Barton’s gut and Clint wondered, for a brief moment, if he could turn around and walk out.

“I said sit. I’m not going to ask you again.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, finally crossing the distance between him and the desk and settling into one of the empty, metal chairs facing the Director.

Fury released a breath as though he’d been holding onto it for hours. Reclining back in his chair, he lingered in an uncomfortable silence for an additional few minutes, leading the agent to recognize the gesture for what it was. Fury was picking and choosing his words, constructing the sentence before glancing away and back to the archer seated across from him. “I hardly need to tell you that medical’s going to want to detain you for a while,” was the opening salvo he settled on.

Barton frowned. “I’m expecting doctors, shrinks, and probably a lot of reprimand, actually.”

With a wave of his hand, the Director brushed the words aside. “Yeah, we’ll get to all of that when we get to it. Considering we have half of Manhattan to clean up right now, you’re pretty low on the totem pole.”

“Why did you call me in, then sir?”

Fury shook his head. “Because I wasn’t about to hand this job off to somebody who didn’t deserve it.” He sighed, a weight evident on his shoulders as his gaze drifted again. The knot in Barton's stomach twisted that much tighter. “There were casualties.”

Clint's frown deepened. “I know.” Lifting a hand, he scrubbed at his face and forced his eyes to return to Fury, despite their desire to wander. “I asked Agent Romanov about it and she refused to answer.”

This at least curled the corner of the Director's lips. “Agent Romanov knows better than to knock you out of the game before the final buzzer.”

“That she does.” A laugh threatened to bubble upward, choked back at the last moment when Clint replayed the comment that’d led them down this path in the first place. He sighed. “How bad was it?”

Fury didn’t answer. He stared at the archer and suddenly, Clint knew the one-two punch might include a three. Maybe a four. He at least knew Natasha was all right, considering the concussion. The feisty, redheaded assassin had dragged him back into the fight, head injury or none, and it was pure will and determination that had them both in the middle of a battle he still couldn’t believe had happened. If not for the others, he probably would have guessed he had checked back into No Man’s Land.

His partner was alive. Scratch one name off the list.

The Director and Maria Hill were in one piece. Mostly, in Agent Hill’s case; Clint saw the bandages on Maria’s face and reconsidered asking about it. The personnel on the helicarrier looked banged up and bruised, but Clint had been warned not to count the heads. There were people missing, period, and that would be several weeks in the life of a S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist. Barton swallowed hard, not wanting to think about the one name absent from the inventory. The one person he feared might not be rounding a corner at any minute, a wry grin curling the corners of his lips and that dry, deadpan humor saying the words, “ _Did you miss me?_ ”

“Director Fury... where is Agent Coulson?”

A pause preceded the answer, that damn look of sympathy stabbing through Clint like a knife and carving his heart out in the process. “Agent Coulson is dead."

Clint stared at Fury, a wall of shock rapidly being erected by a psyche that knew it’d sustained a direct hit. A lump formed in his throat, holding back a scream he saw himself bellowing without having the voice to birth it. A million names could’ve been thrown at him by the Director, inspiring reactions both great and small, but he had to say that one. _Had to say that one._

Not that one.

Any one but that one.

“Agent... Coulson... is...” He couldn't repeat the word. It got trapped and threatened to choke him. In his current reality, anything should've been possible, but not this. “He... I... uh...” A tremor developed in Clint's voice. In his hands. In body. His eyes welled up as one half of his brain warred against the other, both recognizing the news and denying it with all he was worth.

“No, he... uh...” Amidst the stream of absurdities, Clint heard a taunt echo, bearing a voice he would hear in his nightmares for the rest of his natural days.

_Go on, Agent Barton, and say it. Who precisely is dead?_

“Phil....” He blurted the name and collapsed into gut-wrenching sobs. The tremor grew; an earthquake rumbling from its epicenter and claiming the archer bit by bit by bit until he blacked into a void of grief, time moving fast and slow – blurred and viscerally clear – at the same time. Clint clenched his hands into fists, his body rocking, head shaking as the part of him in denial clung on those few seconds more.

“Jesus Fucking Christ, no.”

Fury frowned, not moving the entire time while one of his best unraveled before him. Shoulders squared and chin lifted, he regarded Clint impassively until Barton’s tears subsided and the numb finally kicked in. A distant stare. A sniffle and a shaky stand. The other man nodded at him, his voice soft as he asked to be dismissed.

“Permission granted,” the Director said, letting those be the final words between them

***

If a lie could be made its own being, then a good lie was a multi-celled organism and a great one, even more complex.

Nicholas J. Fury had just fashioned a god.

His eyes remained set on the door as it swung shut, separating him from the rest of the world and enveloping him in silence. The frown remained firmly in place before a deep breath chased it away, taking with it the sympathetic gaze. His attention shifted to the communication device on his desk, finger extending to press one of its buttons.

“Agent Hill, if you're done at the infirmary, I'd like you to report to my office.”


End file.
